this world was not meant for you
by Ruadhnait
Summary: Fingon brings Maedhros back from Thangorodrim, and Maglor finds himself in a difficult situation. Happy birthday, Crackers!


**With very best wishes and much love and hugs to my fellow Tolkienite, Fëanatic, and very dear friend, CrackinAndProudOfIt :) (I was gonna get this published on your actual birthday but then the website was down. I emailed it you yesterday but now I can actually publish it :D)**

_ Someone had taken hold of his shoulder and was shaking him roughly. Maglor rolled over onto his side with a groan as his eyes drifted open. "Get up," Maedhros was saying. Maglor squinted at him, confused and sleepy and irritated. "The hell is going on?" he demanded. He could hear frantic shouts outside, running footsteps, horses whinnying in panic. _

_ Maedhros' face in the flickering shadows cast by the torch he was carrying was unreadable. "Just get up," he repeated. "You have to come outside." Maglor pushed his blankets away from him and sat up, tucking his damp hair behind his ears. It had been a strangely warm and humid night for this far north, and he'd tossed and turned for hours before finally drifting into an uneasy sleep. He wiped his palms on his breeches and followed Maedhros out of the tent._

_ The sky was red. For a wild moment Maglor thought that dawn had come, until he realized that the light was coming from the west. He shaded his eyes and strained to see beyond the huge crowd massing on the beach. _What is it_, he wondered, _some trick of the Valar_ -_

_ Then he saw the huge clouds of black smoke billowing towards the dark sky, the reflected orange light glittering and sparkling on the glassy surface of the sea, eerily calm after the howling storms that had chased them all the way from Valinor, the sheets of flame leaping up and licking greedily at the white ships of the Teleri. Even as he watched, the towering mast of one ship close to shore crumbled and toppled over with a thundering crash, sending a shower of brilliant sparks hissing upward. Maglor could see the masts of the other ships behind it, hundreds and hundreds of them, dark silhouettes like accusing fingers in the heart of the flames. _

_ "Eru," Maglor said hoarsely._

_ "It was Father's idea," Maedhros said, almost unnecessarily._

_ Maglor ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Why would he do this? I mean, we hadn't even finished unpacking everything from the ships - we hadn't meant to camp here permanently, we were going to sail further south, find a better haven, weren't we?" He exhaled sharply, agitated. "What in seven hells was he thinking?" His voice trailed off into silence, and he turned to look at his older brother._

_ Maedhros shrugged. "I guess he didn't want anyone going back," he said after a moment. _

_ Maglor stared at him incredulously. "To Valinor? Nelyo - we _can't_ go back!"_

_ Maedhros shook his head. "Not to Valinor. To Araman. Father didn't want anyone going back for Nolofinwë and the - others." His voice was flat, almost expressionless, his eyes fixed on the burning ships.. "They'll all die, you know," he said. "There's no way to get across the Helcaraxë."_

_ Maglor's mouth was dry. "They'll have to go back to Valinor."_

_ "It was very clever of Father, wasn't it," Maedhros said. He smiled bitterly. _

_ "He fears treachery," Maglor said dully. "That's why he - " He didn't bother to finish the sentence._

_ They moved closer to the water. Maedhros' torch sputtered and went out, but the light from the burning ships was bright enough that they didn't need it anyway. The crowds milling around on the shore had grown strangely silent; they watched the flames leaping up towards the sky as though hypnotized. Maglor's heart was pounding. _

_ An entire fleet of ships set aflame. The white swan-ships of the Teleri had been the pride and joy of Alqualondë, the result of years of labor by the shipwrights of the Teleri, who'd had to draw up all the plans and schematics for the ships, cut and haul all the lumber from miles away, since only small, scraggly pines grew near the harbor. The wives and daughters of the carpenters had woven the filmy white sails themselves, and the smiths of Alqualondë had forged gems of silver and white for the swan figureheads' eyes and to stud the masts and the light silken rigging._

_ Years. Years of slow, careful work, of blood, sweat, and tears. The Teleri had paid the price of the Noldor's need in their own blood, spilled carelessly by Fëanorian swords on the marble quays and silvery sands of Alqualondë._

_ Maglor had done his share of killing. He'd murdered for those ships. He can remember shattering the slender bow of one young Teler with one swing of his sword, then taking off his head with another even as the boy begged for mercy. His blood had pooled thickly on the sand, dark like wine, and Maglor had not even paused before whirling to slash at the next Teler leaping onto the beach. He'd killed him, too. At least he thinks so. He can't really remember all that well. There were so many._

We murdered for those ships, and now Father is just throwing them away? Like the lives we took and the lives of our own that we lost in taking them were nothing?

Like the cousins - his brother - that we left behind in Araman are nothing?

_ Bile rose in Maglor's throat. _My father is a madman_, he thought bitterly. _He's not - the Fëanor I knew would never have done this. He would never have betrayed his own kin.

(Would he?)

(He killed all those Teleri at Alqualondë_, a sneaking, malicious voice reminded Maglor. _He stole the white ships. He's as good as killed Fingolfin and the thousands still waiting in Araman._)_

_ Maglor cursed, loudly enough that those nearby turned to stare. He wanted to hit something._

_ Maedhros' hands were shoved deep in his pocket. "He doesn't want anyone to fail him," he said slowly. He was still gazing out at the ships. The flickering light of the flames was reflected in his eyes. His hair, gleaming in the dim light, hung loose around his shoulders. A slight breeze lifted a few strands off his forehead. His skin was very pale, almost the color of marble, and the line of his cheek and jaw was sharp and chiseled. He was, Maglor thought, beautiful._

_ Maedhros turned and looked sharply at Maglor. "No one can betray him. No one can be allowed to betray him."_

_ "The curse of Mandos," Maglor said. "That our house would always fear treachery - " _

_ "It cannot touch us," Maedhros said, "if we all stay true to one another, do you understand me?" His voice was very quiet._

_ Maglor nodded, silently. He could not speak; his tongue felt heavy and clumsy as lead. He saw, with sudden horror, that a thin trickle of bright red blood was leaking from the corner of Maedhros' eyes._

_ "The moment one son of Fëanor betrays another," Maedhros said, still very quietly, almost calmly, "we fall. We are destroyed from within. Do you understand me, brother?"_

_ There was a dull roaring in Maglor's ears that was neither the wind nor the sea. The faces of the Noldor in the crowd had faded to a grey blur. He stumbled backwards. The western sky was so red. Maglor thought he could feel the heat from the flames licking at him. _They're burning_, Maglor thought, terrified. _We're all going to burn. We're

all

going

to

die

_ He was falling. _

_ Strong arms caught him and lifted him to his feet. Maedhros cupped Maglor's face in his hands and brushed his thumbs lightly across Maglor's lips. "You betrayed me, brother," he said gently. "I trusted you. I loved you. And this is how you repay me? You," he repeated, "betrayed me."_

_ His fingers tightened around Maglor's throat. _

_ Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He was choking, gasping in vain for air, struggling wildly, and his vision misted over and the world faded to black, all he could see was Maedhros' calm, slightly regretful face -_

Maglor awoke suddenly and violently. His chest was heaving and he was soaked with sweat. _Just a dream_, he told himself as he breathed out shakily and sat up on the pile of blankets. _Just a - motherfucking - dream_, and he stood up, shivering. It wasn't the first time. He dreamed of his dead brother Maedhros almost every night.

"It wasn't you," he said aloud to the empty room. "You weren't the one who burned at Losgar. Amras died there, not you." His littlest brother had stayed behind on one of the ships to sleep. Not even his twin had realized he was missing until the following morning. "So why did you have to - kill me there - "

Maglor walked over to the window and looked out; from the pale grey light seeping through the pearly skin of clouds on the eastern horizon, it was almost dawn.

_We are destroyed from within_. That was what Maedhros had said, before -

It was true, though. _Three of us dead already_, Maglor reflected bitterly, _and none of them buried properly_. Amras' bones were ashes along with the white ships. Fëanor had, in typical fashion, destroyed himself. _And Maedhros' corpse lies rotting in some stinking pit in Angband_.

_Eru, what a High King I've been_, Maglor thought. He wanted to laugh, almost. _Killed my own brother already._

He went slowly over to the iron-bound chest in the corner and pulled out a fresh shirt. Once he'd changed, he went over to the pitcher and basin on the table and splashed a few drops of cold water on his face, then attacked his hair with a comb, in the interests of looking a little less like a crazed beggar and a little more like the High King of the Noldor.

He massaged his throat, gingerly. He knew it'd been just a dream, but Eru, he could swear he still felt where Maedhros' fingers had dug into his windpipe -

Somebody was banging on the door, loudly and insistently. Maglor winced and went to open it.

Celegorm was standing there. "What," Maglor said, in no mood to deal with the eldest of his younger brothers this early in the morning. Celegorm said nothing in return, but pushed past Maglor into the room, Huan padding noiselessly at his heels. Celegorm's light brown hair was pulled back messily from his face; Maglor noticed the dark shadows beneath his eyes, how hollow and gaunt his cheeks seemed. He saw, also, the piece of parchment in Celegorm's hand.

He nodded at the paper. "What is that?"

Celegorm didn't give it to him. "It's from Findekáno," he said slowly.

"And?"

"It's Maitimo." Celegorm raised his eyes to Maglor's. "Makalaurë, Maitimo's alive. Findekáno went to Angband and brought him back."

It had been nearly seven years since Maglor saw his older brother last.

He closed his eyes, remembering.

_I will return_, he'd said to Maglor before he rode away. _You'll see. It won't be long. _

_The grey dawn had been damp with chill, heavy fog. The grass had been glistening with pale dew, and the trees dripped gently with moisture; there had been a wild storm with driving rain the night before. _

_Many from the camp had risen to see their High King and his riders leave to meet with the emissaries of Morgoth. When Maglor had found Maedhros, he'd been standing by his horse, a little apart from the rest of his riders, jerking tight the straps of the animal's saddle. "This is dangerous," Maglor had said to him in a low voice. "Trying to trick Morgoth into surrendering a Silmaril. It's too risky."_

_Maedhros' head was still bent over the saddle, but Maglor saw him smile. "You've said as much, brother. Repeatedly."_

_"I wish you'd listen to me," Maglor said, frowning. He'd been unable to dislodge the hollow feeling of dread from the pit of his stomach since Maedhros had made clear his intention to carry out his - somewhat foolhardy - plan. Worse, Maedhros had successfully convinced the rest of his brothers, too; only Maglor seemed to have any doubts about the idea._

_"I have been," Maedhros said. "Patiently." When he saw Maglor's face, he straightened up and brushed his hair away from his eyes. "I've been telling you," he insisted. "If we refuse Morgoth's terms, we get nowhere. If we pretend to accept them, we might regain one of the Silmarils. I don't see what we have to lose."_

M_aglor wasn't convinced. "Suppose Morgoth's lying."_

_ "Suppose he isn't," Maedhros answered. "We defeated him soundly. He might compromise. He's done it before. Do you remember how the Valar pardoned him?"_

_ "What I remember is that he killed Finwë, tried to steal the Silmarils, and slew Laurelin and Telperion," Maglor shot back. "Why do you think you can trust him?"_

_"I'm not looking to make peace with him," Maedhros said heatedly. "I'm not surrendering. And I don't trust him. But I think if I do this right, I can fool him."_

_ Maglor shook his head. _You, brother, are trying to trick one of the Valar? Eru help us all.

_Eru Ilúvatar wouldn't help them, though, not anymore, and so Maglor supposed they would have to rely on their own wits and strength now._

_ Maedhros sighed. "Look," he said. "Morgoth might surrender one of the Silmarils. It's a small chance, but it is a chance. I'm willing to take it. It's easier than trying to break down Angband's walls, anyway."_

_"Nelyo - " Maglor tried desperately._

_ Maedhros held up a hand. "If he surrenders a Silmaril, we're one-third of the way through getting this damned Oath off our shoulders for once and for all. You can say what you like, but I'm not throwing this chance away. Besides," he added, "Father laid it on us to regain the Silmarils. You were there, Káno. Those were his dying words. I have a duty to his memory. As do you," he said sharply._

_ "Father would never even have pretended to treat with Morgoth," Maglor said, in a low voice. "I don't think you're exactly honoring his memory."_

_Maedhros jerked back as though he'd been slapped. "You'd do well to remember that I am your king," he said heatedly. "Father's dead now, and someone has to make these decisions."_

And I think you're making the wrong one. _Maglor bit his lip. He knew that once Maedhros had made up his mind, there was no changing it. _I've lost this one, haven't I. _He gestured at the horses and riders gathering near the gates of their hastily erected fortifications. "You're taking - what, three times the strength you agreed to?"_

_"Like I said," Maedhros said firmly. "I'm not treating with Morgoth, I'm only pretending to. And if it comes to a fight, I don't want to be unprepared."_

_The dread was back, stronger than ever. "I wish you'd let me come with you."_

_ Maedhros shook his head. "No, you have to stay behind and rule in my stead."_

I don't want to rule, _Maglor thought sullenly._ I don't want to be the High King, that's your job. _But there was no way to say it without sounding like a petulant child, so he kept quiet. _

_ "It's past time we were gone," Maedhros was saying. "We need to get moving."_

I've lost, _Maglor thought hopelessly_. Eru forgive me, I can't make him listen to me. Nelyo, you fool …

_Maedhros took his horse's reins, but Maglor reached and caught his wrist before he could walk off. "Listen," he said quietly, "I know you're my king, but you're also my brother. I'm telling you, as your brother, that I _wish_ you would not do this thing." His voice cracked, and he had to look away from Maedhros for a moment. _

_He wasn't smiling anymore. "You have to trust me, then. As you would your brother."_

_ Maglor nodded, swallowing hard. "I do. I just - " _I can't fail you. I can't let you down. _He turned back to Maedhros and forced himself to smile bravely. "Just promise me you'll return."_

"I will," Maedhros said. "You'll see."

_He might have once said farewell by saying_ Go with the peace of the Valar, _but in Beleriand, the only god that mattered was the one they'd come to fight. So he said nothing, and instead reached forward and pulled Maedhros into a tight hug. _Just come back, _he wanted to say._ Just come back alive. Please.

_He didn't, though. He just let Maedhros squeeze his shoulder one last time and then stood back as his brother went over to join his men, and watched as he swung into the saddle and kicked his horse into a trot, leading the rest of the company out of the gates of the camp, with the black flag of the House of Fëanor fluttering slightly in the damp, still air._

_ He was still watching as the last of the riders disappeared over the crest of the hill. His younger brothers stood silently beside him._

_ "You said goodbye to him?" Curufin asked._

_ "Yes," Maglor said, his eyes fixed on the gray northern horizon. "Did you?"_

_ "Earlier, yes." Curufin sighed a little. "He was determined, wasn't he?"_

_ "He was," Maglor agreed._

_ His younger brother was looking at him carefully. "You're still not happy that he went, are you?"_

_ "No," Maglor admitted. "I'm not."_

_ "It will be fine," Curufin insisted. "He'll be back in no time, as like as not with a Silmaril too. Things will turn out all right, Káno,_ _they_ will …"

At first, Maglor didn't even fully comprehend what Celegorm had said. "What?" he said blankly, his mind suddenly numb.

"Here." Celegorm gave the letter to Maglor. He looked tense and agitated. "Findekáno saved him, he went to Angband and brought him back."

Maglor unfolded the letter and stared at the brief paragraph of small, neat script for a long moment without really seeing it, before he shook himself and forced himself to read it.

_I have brought your brother, Nelyafinwë Maitimo_,_ High King of the Noldor_,_ back from Angband_, it read. _He is at our camp north of Lake Mithrim, recovering from his wounds. - Findekáno Nolofinwion_.

That was all. Maglor read it once, then twice, then lifted his head and looked and Celegorm again. "It makes no sense," he murmured, suddenly confused. "We left Findekáno behind with the rest of them in Araman. Why would he - why would he try to _help_ us?"

"I don't know." Maglor saw Celegorm clench the fingers of his sword hand into a tight fist.

He read the letter again. It was almost to short to be called a letter, really. He could almost hear Fingon's voice in the terse sentences, see him standing there with his arms folded tightly across his chest, a sullen scowl seemingly permanently etched across his face. Fingon the - what had they called him? The Valiant, that was it. He and Maedhros had been closer than brothers, once, even though they were only half related by blood. And Fingon had - he'd -

\- he'd gone to Angband and brought Maedhros home.

Maglor folded the letter in thirds and handed it back to Celegorm, who tucked in his belt, still looking troubled. "What do you think it means?" he asked.

"I trust him," Maglor decided. "Findekáno couldn't lie if he tried to." It wasn't quite true, but the sons of Indis had a straightforward, blunt way about them and an active moral compass that the descendants of Finwë's first wife Míriel somewhat lacked. Maglor privately thought that it was Indis' Vanyarin blood that did it.

Celegorm didn't look convinced. "Are you sure?" He sounded uncertain.

"I trust Findekáno," Maglor repeated. "You said the messenger came at dawn?"

"Yes, but - "

"And left right away without waiting for a reply?"

Celegorm nodded. "Yes."

Maglor thought about that. _He doesn't want anything from us. He's just informing us of what he's done, and how we react is up to us_.

"I can't believe it," Celegorm said quietly. "It doesn't seem possible. I can't imagine Morgoth _letting_ a prisoner escape …" He sounded miserable.

Maglor felt a sudden rush of sympathy for his younger brother. _None of this was your fault, Tyelko. This is all on me, and I know it_.

_You would have gone after Maedhros, if I'd let you_.

Maglor swallowed. He reached out and squeezed Celegorm's forearm. "Go tell your brothers," he said, trying to said cheerful. "They'll want to know."

Celegorm nodded and went out, followed by Huan. Once he was gone, Maglor walked slowly over to the center of the room and sat down heavily on the bed, staring fixedly at the opposite wall without seeing it all. He felt utterly numb.

_My brother is alive._

_ Maitimo is alive._

_ The brother I abandoned and left for dead years ago has returned_.

Maglor covered his face with his hands. _Eru_. He didn't know whether to laugh or weep.

He called his brothers together soon afterwards. The morning was young yet, and he wanted to speak to them before the news of Maedhros' return spread through the entire camp. They met in the council chamber, and only the five of them were present; Maglor had not allowed any of his brothers' bannermen and warriors to attend.

Curufin, Maglor thought, looked as though he had not slept at all. He was dressed in the same ragged riding leathers that he'd been wearing last night when Maglor had seen him last, returning to the camp after a day of hunting alone in the surrounding wilderness. He was pale and drawn, and his eyes had the same empty, feverish look that reminded Maglor eerily of Fëanor in his last days. Curufin sat with his chair pushed back, his elbows resting on the table, silent and brooding. Maglor was reminded all over again of how much his younger brother had changed since Fëanor's death and Maedhros' loss.

Caranthir seemed more subdued than usual. He and Celegorm had been shouting at each other again the night before, but they seemed to have forgotten it, because they sat close beside each other, Caranthir with his arms folded and Celegorm scratching Huan's head under the table. Amras was the only one of them who seemed happier and more hopeful. He said little, as had become his habit, but he'd brightened visibly since he'd learned of Maedhros' return. _He's lost so much_, Maglor reflected. Amras had been brother to all of them, but he'd been Amrod's twin, and his death, Amras had been visibly less, quieter than ever, going hunting by himself for days on end, frequently slipping out of council meetings without saying a word. There were times that Maglor even forgot that he was there at all.

Maglor cleared his throat. "Tyelko, Moryo, Kurvo, Pityo," he began. He'd always addressed them thus. Strictly speaking, he was their king and their liege lord, but they were his brothers first, and he still called them by the nicknames they'd used among themselves since childhood.

Curufin broke in. "It's true, then," he said. "That Nelyo has returned."

"Yes," Maglor said.

"You're certain," Curufin persisted.

"As certain as I can be."

"You trust _Fingon_?" Caranthr said disbelievingly.

"We've always been the ones to betray them, Moryo, not the other way around," Maglor said shortly.

"He could be intending to hold Nelyo as hostage, you know," Curufin suggested.

"No," Maglor said firmly. "There was nothing like that in the letter." Curufin started to speak again, but Maglor stopped him. "No more. I trust Fingon entirely."

"He's Nolofinwë's son," Caranthir complained.

"Well, Nolofinwë's son has succeeded where all the rest of us proud Fëanorians have failed," Maglor said, and Caranthir had the grace to at least flush dark red.

"That's why I called you all here," he continued. "We owe Findekáno son of Nolofinwë a tremendous debt of gratitude." Neither Curufin nor Caranthir, to their credit, said anything. "And we owe their entire family, not to mention the thousands who followed them across the Helcaraxë - an apology."

Celegorm's head jerked up. He looked incensed, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, Curufin and Caranthir both started to shout at Maedhros at once.

It was Amras who stopped them. "Enough!" he yelled. Celegorm turned to stare at him in surprise. "We _do_," he insisted. "It's been far too long."

"You're right, Pityo," Maglor said. "Look, I'm going to the northern shore of Mithrim, and I'm leaving this morning."

There was a long silence, punctuated after a long moment by Amras' quiet "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know," Maglor said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "I'll try to be no longer than a week. But I have to go."

Celegorm frowned. "Will the rest of us be allowed to see Nelyo too?"

"I don't know," Maglor said, "I will have to ask Fingon. In the meantime, you should stay here. Remember, we betrayed them. They will not love any of us, and so I think it's better that only I go at first."

Celegorm bit his lip. Maglor could almost see him struggling to contain his anger. He was silent for a long moment, but he finally said, "Don't be gone too long."

"I'll try," Maglor told him. "Tyelko, I am still the High King, but you know to take my place in my absence."

Celegorm nodded once. Curufin and Caranthir were silent. Maglor knew they were still angry, but there was little he could do about that. He knew that they were angry, and ashamed, and suspicious, and did not know how to let themselves rejoice that their brother had returned. _But so are we all_, he thought, and so they would have to learn to restrain themselves, even in their humiliation.

He stood and made for the door without saying anything else. _I will return_, he might have said once, but he'd learned not to make promises he couldn't keep.

_Maedhros had been gone nearly two weeks when the emissaries from Morgoth had come._

_ He'd sent a company of Orcs and warg-riders; they'd ridden up to the gate and demanded loudly to see Maglor. They were nothing like the single, falsely humble Orcs who'd been sent before, bearing Morgoth's supposed peace terms. Maglor had heard the jeering and the yelping of the wargs, but it wasn't until he saw how angry his brothers seemed, how stony-faced the guards were, that he really understood._

_He felt as though a next of snakes had coiled in his belly, but he forced himself to stay calm as he addressed the Orcs. He tried to recall how Maedhros had carried himself as the High King, how he'd maintained his composure before even the boldest servants of Morgoth. _You were born to rule, brother_,_ _he found himself thinking fiercely_. You were. Not me_._

_Before he could speak, though, the leader of the Orcs, a hideous bony creature with a pale, twisted face who sat astride of one of thee squat, wiry-haired, blunt-snouted wargs of the North, began to speak. His teeth were stained yellow and had been sharpened into pointed fangs. "Terms from my master," he read in a loud, nasal voice from a filthy scrap of parchment. "That firstly: we shall not release Nelyafinwë son of Curufinwé until you, his brothers, agree to abandon your - " he smirked " - treacherous war against Melkor, the rightful lord of all Beleriand, and withdraw from these lands into the West, or else far into the south of the world beyond the river Sirion. Ceasing at once to harry the servants and the realm of Melkor, you must swear fealty to him as your rightful king." He rolled up the parchment and thrust it back in his belt._

_ When Maglor did not answer him, the Orc bared his fangs again. "Remember, High King, your brother is ours. Should you refuse to comply …" he licked his lips, grinning. "I'm sure we will find some use for him, if you will not have him back. The servants of Angband do love their whores."_

_ Maglor's hand found the hilt of his sword and pulled it out of the sheath before he even realized what he was doing. He moved forward without thinking and took a mighty swing at the back of the back of the warg's neck, half severing its head. It crumpled to its knees, black blood gushing forth and soaking its matted grey fur as its rider came tumbling to the ground as he struggled to unsheathe his own blade. Maglor bent over and heaved the Orc to its feet, his fingers digging into its throat. The creature thrashed wildly and struggled to pull free. Maglor felt his lips twist into a smile. He hurled the orc back to the ground and even as it attempted to rise, wheezing, he raised his sword and thrust it through the Orc's neck, then yanked it out again, as the warm blood splattered across his face and neck. He spat out a mouthful of blood and wiped his blood-slick palms off on his jerkin. _

_ Arrows sang over his head. The archers on the wall of the camp had taken the hint and their shafts were finding their marks; the corpses of Orcs and wargs alike lay thick on the ground already. Beside Maglor, Celegorm was battling a huge goblin with a flat swarthy face and small red eyes._ Kill them all, _Maglor might have shouted, but he saw clearly enough that his brothers and their men were going to do that without his encouragement._

_There must have been fifty warg-mounted Orcs in that company, but the Noldor made short work of them. Perhaps half an hour later, every Orc and warg in that company lay dead. The archers had taken care of the cravens who'd tried to turn tail and run back to Angband. Maglor's men had lost only two of their own; one young soldier had been knocked to the ground and trampled by the rampaging wargs; two others had fallen to the swords of the Orcs. They would give the fallen Noldor honorable burials later by the shores of Mithrim where they'd laid to rest those who'd been slain in the Dagor nuin Giliath._

_ Maglor was watching his men heap the carcasses of the Orcs and wargs into a pile to be burned, not bothering to clean sword or wash the blood from his face, when Celegorm found him._

_ "You heard everything it said?" Celegorm asked him._

_ Maglor nodded jerkily. "I did." _

_ "I guess you aren't going to …" Celegorm trailed off uncertainly. _

_ "No," Maglor said. "No, I am not."_

_ Celegorm was quiet for a long moment. "Do you think Maitimo is dead?" he said finally._

_ Maglor closed his eyes. He could not speak for a while. "Tyelko," he said at last, "I pray that he is."_

_ Celegorm jerked around to stare at Maglor. "What do you mean?" he said, alarmed. "What are you saying? Káno, wait!" But Maglor was already walking away from him, pushing through the crowds of people, leaving the circle of tents behind, past the circle of horses who stood tethered beyond the tents, across the muddy fields of trampled grass, into the woods beyond. After a while, when he had pushed his way through the tangle of thorny underbrush for what seemed like hours, he stopped abruptly._

_ There was a dull roaring in his ears._ I knew this would happen, _he thought numbly_. I knew Morgoth would be faithless, but I let Maitimo go. I didn't stop him.

Sacred Eru. _He had dropped to his knees._ This is all my fault. I let him go. I did nothing to stop him. I knew this would happen, but I did nothing.

_ "Nelyo," he heard himself whisper, shakily. "Toronya." _Brother_. Not only his brother, but his best friend._

I have betrayed you, brother. _He tried not to imagine Maedhros captured and chained in some filthy dungeon in Angband with the wolf whelps and the obscene creatures of darkness that Morgoth bred, the spiders and the trolls and the warts, stripped naked and beaten bloody until the torn flesh hung off him in rags, forced to kneel before Morgoth's throne with his teeth grinding together so he wouldn't scream._

This is what I have condemned you to.

_His own scream tore free from his throat a moment later. He screamed until his throat was raw and his voice gone. He bent over, trembling, digging his nails into his palms until the blood ran._

_ It hurt, but not enough._

He reached the northern shore of Mithrim on the morning of the second day after he'd set out. The dawn was pale but clear, with the few wisps of cloud reflected in the glassy surface of the lake. Maglor dismounted his horse and led him by the reins through the tall, dew-soaked grass along the edge of the water. There were a few small birds chirping in the reeds of marsh, but other than them and the light breeze rustling in the grass, the land that Fingolfin and his followers had claimed was eerily silent.

He'd forgotten, in the complete silence that had pervaded between the two camps, how long Fingolfin's followers had been building their town. He'd almost expected a field of ragged tents and campfires, but instead he was met with a neat walled town of wooden plank houses with thin tendrils of white smoke from the cook fires stretching towards the clear blue sky.

There were guards by the gate. When they saw Maglor approaching, they sprang forward, swords unsheathed. He'd avoided wearing the star of the house of Fëanor on his doublet or jerkin, and when one of the guards called out, "Who are you, and what do you want?" he knew that they did not recognize him.

A few paces away from them, he stopped and raised his hands, to show that he meant no harm. "I am looking for my brother," he said.

The guards exchanged glances. "Who's your brother?" the other one demanded.

"Nelyafinwë Fëanorian," Maglor said, eyeing the guards warily. He could see surprise and sudden fear flash across their faces.

"Which of his brothers are you, then?" the other asked.

"Kanafinwë," he answered. _And until my brother is healed and wears his crown again, I am your High King_, he thought of adding, but decided against it. In the minds of these two young Noldor - barely more than children, really - there was no king but Nolofinwé, who'd led them across the Helcaraxë and into Beleriand at last. "May I enter?"

"Unhand your weapon," the guard said.

"Look," Maglor said impatiently, "just tell Findekáno I'm here; he'll let me in."

"Unhand your weapon," the other repeated, seemingly without hearing him.

Maglor was growing angry. _I am being treated like a criminal in the city of my own kin_, he thought, _but that's what I am, isn't it._

_ (Traitor. Kinslayer.)_

Reluctantly, he reached down and unbuckled his sword belt, then handed it to the guard. "Now may I enter?" he asked.

There was a moment of silence. Finally one of the guards said, "I am sorry, my lord, but no stranger enters this city without the permission of our lord Nolofinwë. I will tell him you are here." He turned and vanished inside the city, leaving Maglor and the other guard outside.

The anger had returned. _You disarm me, humiliate me, force me to wait outside while you decide whether I am allowed to see my own brother? I am your king, you fool_, he'd wanted to shout at the guard's retreating back.

_I am your King. _(That was a lie if there ever was one.)

After what seemed like hours, the first guard returned with a tall, dark-haired Elf whom Maglor didn't even recognize at first. He saw inky black hair braided in two long plaits, a longsword hanging at his side, and a pale, haggard face, but it was only when Maglor saw his eyes, sunken and hollow but still that Finwean storm-grey that he recognized Fingon son of Fingolfin.

Fingon pushed past the guards. His eyes found Maglor's and lingered there for a moment, searchingly. "You're here to see your brother, I suppose," he said finally.

He was even curter and much colder than Maglor remembered. "Yes," Maglor said. "By your leave, my lord," he added. _A harmless courtesy_.

Fingon was silent for a long moment. At last he sighed. "I do not trust you, Kanafinwë," he said, "but he is your brother. Follow me." He turned on his heel, and Maglor followed him inside the camp. Once the gates had been closed behind them, Fingon turned to face Maglor. "My guards may not have known you, but others here will," he said. "They will not welcome you."

"I am not asking to be welcomed," Maglor said in a low voice. "All I ask is to see my brother."

Fingon didn't answer him.

Inside the town, people were beginning to stir. Men and women with buckets were leaving their houses and making to leave the camp and head to the lake for water. Maglor saw yawning children, dogs curled up in the doorways of houses, cook fires being kindled on the hearths. it seemed peaceful, so _normal_, and so utterly foreign. Fingon led him past rows and rows of houses and tents, deep into the heart of the camp. Finally they came to a large house that had clearly been built for Fingolfin and his family. Fingon made as if to go inside, but Maglor lingered outside the door.

"Findekáno," he said, with a sudden thought. "Wait. How long has my brother been here?"

Fingon's gaze did not waver. "Close on three weeks now," he said. "I sent my rider to you five days ago."

"What?" Maglor's voice rose incredulously. "He has been here all this time, and you did not tell me?"

"We did not think he would live, at first," Fingon said quietly.

"What, so you would have let him die without even telling his family?" Maglor demanded, angry again.

"I was thinking a little less of _you,_" Fingon said sharply, "and more of him." He turned towards the door again, but Maglor stopped him.

"So he was close to death, then," he said.

"He was captive in Angband for seven years, Kanafinwë, what do you really think?" Fingon said, but the reproach was gone from his voice. Maglor remembered how he and Maedhros had been closer than brothers once, and realized, _This is as hard for him as it is for you_.

"He still has not woken up for more than a few moments," Fingon went on.

Maglor could feel dread prickling along his spine. "So what - " he began, but Fingon interrupted him.

"Let me take you to see him," he said, and Maglor followed him inside the house.

There was a door off the main hallway. Fingon pushed it open and jerked his head at Maglor. He went in.

His brother lay on the bed in the center of the room.

He was pale as death; only the slight rise and fall of his bare chest betrayed that his heart still beat. Fingon said that he lived, but to Maglor, Maedhros looked more like the mangled corpses he'd seen on the field of battle. The brother who'd left Mithrim that grey dawn so many years ago had been hale and strong, full of fire and life. The Maedhros lying on the bed was barely more than a skeleton; Maglor could count every rib stretching his waxy skin. His eyes were closed and sunk deep in his skull; his lips were dry and scabbed. His coppery-bright red hair had been shaven off; only a short stubble remained. Scars crisscrossed his chest, his stomach, his face and neck and arms, but most of them had healed, the lips of the wounds knitted together to form ropes of scar tissue. _Maitimo_, Maglor thought helplessly, and all of a sudden that name, _beautiful one_, seemed a terrible irony.

His right shoulder had clearly been broken; it had been splinted, but his arm still lay at an awkward angle on the blankets, and from the forearm down, it was swathed in thick bandages. He seemed a broken thing, barely even alive, to Maglor. For a long moment Maglor could not speak at all. He had grasped the doorknob to steady himself, and when he gingerly let go of it, his palms were soaked with sweat. _That is not my brother_, he felt like saying. _My brother is strong and swift and beautiful. He was not - this. Never this_.

Fingon was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. It was a long time before Maglor could speak. Finally he said, "What happened?"

Fingon was staring fixedly at Maedhros' battered form. "They had hung him by his right hand from one of the peaks of Thangorodrim," he said.

_My brother_, Maglor thought numbly. _I did this to you_.

Fingon stirred. Before Maedhros could ask, he said, "I had to cut off his hand to free him."

At first Maglor barely even registered what Fingon had said, but then the full weight of those words - _cut off his hand_\- hit him, and for a moment, overwhelmed, he struggled even to breathe.

"You cut off his hand?" he finally managed.

"It was the only way," Fingon said. He was still gazing at Maedhros. He looked pale and drawn, and his eyes had the look of some hunted thing. He turned to look at Maedhros, and Maglor saw in his eyes the same guilt that had plagued him for years. "I couldn't have done anything else. I had to."

(That was what Maglor had told himself, too, in all the haunted days and sleepless nights that had followed that terrible, terrible day. _I had no choice_, he'd told himself, his brothers, his father's ghost, over and over again.)

"He begged for death, you know," Fingon said. He passed a hand over his eyes. "Twice he asked me to kill him. I almost did it, too. I was about to shoot him when Thorondor stopped me."

Maglor could not look away from Maedhros, his wasted form, his gaunt face and hollow cheeks. _How will he wield his sword again? _he wondered. He moved closer to the bed, reached out and brushed Maedhros' wrist with his fingertips. _My brother was dead. How will he live again?_

"Findekáno," Maglor said. "He wanted to go back for you. At Losgar. He wanted to sail back to Araman for you." Maedhros was so still. "I just wanted you to know that."

Fingon was very quiet; after a few moments, Maglor heard him turn and leave the room, leaving Maglor and Maedhros alone.

Maglor had sunk to his knees. _Thank you_, he would have said, but Fingon was already gone.

He'd told his younger brothers, _Pray that he is dead_.

He could not forget the sight of that Orc's foul, sneering face and the way he'd licked his lips when he'd said _Doubtless we shall find some use for your brother_. He could not forget it. Again and again and again he'd heard the creature's words, seen its obscene delight.

(Some corner of Maglor's mind wondered numbly how many times they'd raped Maedhros stripping him naked and leaving him hanging on the face of the mountain, at the mercy of the bitter winds and the cold, the ever present hunger and thirst.)

_I did this to you_.

The dreams had found him almost every night. In the weeks and months and years after Maedhros had been taken by Morgoth, Maglor had dreamed of his brother. He'd seen him stretched on the rack in the pits of Angband, his flesh licked by the flames until it dripped off his bones, and Maglor would always wake to the sound of his screams still ringing in his ears. He'd seen him enslaved, forced to wear chains while he labored, driven by the whips of the Orcs, to delve the tunnels of Angband ever deeper into the roots of the earth.

Worse, though, Maglor had dreamed of Maedhros as he'd been before he'd left, tall and proud and beautiful, the brother he'd loved with all his heart. The brother he'd betrayed, left behind in the dungeons of Angband without so much as a single attempt to save him.

_I loved you,_ Maedhros would say, in Maglor's dreams, his brow furrowed. His eyes would find Maglor's, troubled, confused. _And you betrayed me. You betrayed me,_ he'd say, his voice hardening, _and for that you must die -_

\- and Maedhros' bright longsword would be swinging towards Maglor's skull, or Maedhros' fingers would be tearing savagely into his throat, or he'd have his hands wrapped tightly around his neck. _Faithless scum. You betrayed me_.

Maglor would always wake screaming. He knew that his brothers thought he was going mad.

He hated them all a little for that. They could not understand, they could _not_, what making that decision had been like, how beneath the cold, calm exterior he presented to his council and his bannermen and his brothers, the quiet, perfectly rational way he'd explained to them why he could not possibly even attempt to rescue his brother, he wanted to scream, to howl until his throat bled and claw out his own eyes, tear his own flesh into bloody ribbons. Bathe in the blood. There was enough of it, anyway.

They all thought him mad. _Killing your brother will do that to you, yes_.

His brothers had resented, too, that he'd refused to let them so much as attempt to rescue Maedhros. _There is no way we can breach the walls of Angband,_ he'd said to them. _We will kill ourselves in the trying, and once Morgoth was aware of our presence he'd have Maitimo killed before we could ever reach him_.

_We have to at least try. _Celegorm had struck the table with the flat of his hand. _We can't give up now. _He'd been seething with barely contained anger.

_Like as not he is dead already_. Maglor had been so exhausted. _There is nothing you can do. Nothing, do you hear me?_

_ And if he is not dead?_ Curufin's arms had been folded across his chest. _What then, Kanafinwë?_

_ To you he is,_ Maglor had answered. _You are not to go after Maitimo_.

Caranthir had started to protest, but Maglor had silenced him with an upraised hand. _Disobedience to this command will be accounted as treason to the High King of the Noldor_, he said, and there'd been complete, utter silence.

None of them had had to speak for Maglor to know exactly what they were thinking. Their eyes accused him.

When Caranthir finally spoke, his voice was low and ugly. _He would have gone after you_, he'd said. _He would have died for you, and this is how you repay him?_

He had not answered that. He'd turned on his heel and left, with them shouting after him. _I would never have thought you such a coward_, Caranthir was saying.

_Words. Just words_, he reminds himself. Words like jagged pieces of steel, relentless like the truth. They cut through him, tore his flesh from his bones, left him a ragged, skeletal thing of blood and bone, shaking and shivering and crumpled to the ground.

He kept walking.

_How will we live again? How will we recover from this? How will we keep fighting?_

_ We are destroyed from within_, Maedhros had said at Losgar, all those years ago.

Maglor thought of the curse of Mandos, and of Fëanor, who would have rather faced an army of Balrogs than live in the crippling fear of treachery from within. _We've been shamed_, Maglor realized. _Fingon has humiliated all of us, because he forgave us, because he saved Maedhros without even knowing that Maedhros would have done the same for him. _

_ Something has to change_, he thought. _Father is dead. We have to start over, if we are to win this war, but we have to keep fighting, and we have to do it together. _

_It cannot be over. I will not let it be over. I will not let this end our battle now. I will not._

He was weeping, still kneeling on the floor beside Maedhros' bed, clasping his brother's hand in both of his. _Forgive me, my brother, forgive me_.


End file.
